


Sorrow into Wisdom

by SilverWolf7



Category: Silmarillion
Genre: Angst, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverWolf7/pseuds/SilverWolf7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sorrow into Wisdom</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sorrow into Wisdom

**Author's Note:**

> Sorrow into Wisdom

Sorrow into Wisdom

He knew not what had happened to begin with. One minute he had been on Cristhorn fighting for his life and those of his people, a Balrog. He had seen it fall and had turned about to join the others that were fleeing.

He had felt a tug on his hair and had fallen...fallen! "Ai! Nämo has taken me into his halls," he said aloud to himself, but it seemed so unreal!

He had spent the last few minutes aimlessly wandering about, trying to find something, someone, to try and help him through the confusion he now felt.

He turned down corridor after twisting corridor, looking for a sign that he was mistaken in his thoughts. His wanderings led him to a garden of which was very beautiful and tears sprang to his eyes.

He would not cry. It accomplished nothing in the end but to weaken him. He was already dead, he didn't need to be thought of any less by shedding pointless tears over what could not be reversed.

And yet, the sorrow of his own passing clung to him like a sodden cloak.

He spotted a bench under a lone tree and sat upon it, wrapping his arms around his legs and burying his head between his knees. The grief crashed upon him in waves, but he would not give in to it!

A hand touched him on a shoulder and his head raised only to spot a vision in blue standing before him, a sad and knowing smile upon her face.

"Come," she said and held out one of her arms for him to take. Doing so, he took the offered hand and stood, following this woman. A name formed itself in his mind then. Nienna. But he had not gone to her! He had no need of grief, or pity.

But didn't he now feel grief? Ai, but he was confused!

They walked through many halls and he couldn't help but look at the tapestries that were upon the walls, each one from a different moment in history. Vairë, the Weaver! He truly was in the Halls of Mandos.

When they stopped their walking, he tuned his head to look at the door they stopped in front of and his knees failed to support him. If it was not for Nienna catching him, he would have jarred his knees quite terribly on the floor.

As it was, she did catch him and took him inside the small room, furnished sparsely with a bed. The tapestry that was still on his mind would forever be burned into his vision. He had never seen the likes of it before. Perfect in every detail, it showed the one hand left on the Balrog wrapped up in his hair.

That explained the tug he had felt, the fall afterwards and how he came to be here. It was of his death!

He found himself sitting on the bed, a pair of slim arms wrapped about him. He had barely felt himself move since he had entered the room.

"It is dangerous, Glorfindel, to keep this grief and hurt inside. Only by letting it go will you begin to heal, to understand."

The words were as if spoken from some deep part of his heart. He knew instinctively that she was telling the truth to him, though until the fall of his fair city, Gondolin, he had never felt the loss of a close friend. Comrades, yes, Elves he had never known personally yet fought beside yes, but this was something different. His parents, his home, most of the people he cared most for, all had been killed in front of him. And he had been too busy trying to help those still alive to grieve for those people. His own death suddenly seemed so small.

Nienna's arms tightened about him, and one of her hands came to rest upon his golden head, running fingers through the long strands of his hair.

It was that which broke his walls and made him weep for all he had lost. He clung to the Valier of grief and wept like it was the most important thing in the world to do. Perhaps it was.

He felt the fall of tears land on his skin, tears cried by the one holding him close. Why she would cry for him, with him, was beyond his understanding but it made him feel the grief less harshly.

It was as if his soul had been cleansed of the feeling when he finally stopped and he had a sudden clarity over death. It was, even to the Eldar, part of life, and it is that part that makes one more alive. He had lived a good life and had died honoroubly, and though there were people who would mourn his passing, they would move on with their lives and learn to be happy again.

Or, at least he hoped they would. He knew then why it was Nienna had cried alongside him. It was not for the grief he had felt over his friends and family, but for the small act of feeling grief in the first place. Though it was natural to feel so, she mourned for every time someone felt so. It was a strange notion to come by, but one he knew he would never forget.

He shifted and let his arms release her from his almost crushing grip. He turned towards her and was about to thank her for this knowledge when he noticed the tearstains upon her blue dress he had left there. Guilt made him pause and shift uneasily on the spot.

Nienna lifted one of her long fingers and placed it over his mouth as he went to apologise. "There is no need to say sorry. I do not mind."

She then smiled at him, a smile so dazzling in and of itself that it almost brought him to tears again. And it had been he that had given her this gift.

"Thank you," he whispered, and got up to let her out of the room. As he escorted Nienna to the door, he was filled with a great sense of peace. Yes, he had lost friends, yes he had lost his home. He had even lost his life. The most important thing though was that he had lived.

And that was enough to make him smile.


End file.
